


Courage

by Blue_Sparkle



Series: Chances [2]
Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/pseuds/Blue_Sparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Cowardice, takes place after the movie's end</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage

He sat in the old ragged armchair and stared at the ceiling. It was cold in the flat, but he couldn’t bring himself to do something about that, it was close to midnight and Withnail hadn’t moved since the early afternoon. 

A small heap of empty bottles was scattered around him and clattered quietly each time his foot stirred them, ashes that he had let drop carelessly covered his chest and the armchair, like the snow that had yet to fall this year. Not all of it was todays work, no, the bottles, the ashes and the general junk in the flat had accumulated in the past weeks, months - hell it felt like decades to Withnail and maybe it was that, really.

Time hadn’t progressed like it used to since he left. 

With a heavy sigh he brought the wine bottle in his hand up to his lips and tried to take a sip. A single drop of the cheep stuff rolled out of it, when had he finished it? 

The pale light of the streetlamp right outside of the window hurt his eyes and Withnail covered his face with his hand, letting the bottle fall to the others. When his friend, flatmate left he had cried; he had told himself that it was his Uncle’s wine or the rain. But the first few days were the most miserable in his life. 

The following weeks were the time when he smoked and swallowed most of the crap Danny brought along. He would sit in the corner of the room and laugh like the madman he was, and no, he was having fun without that bastard. 

Denial, that’s what it was when he repeatedly told himself that all was great, now that he was alone and free to do what he wanted without minding his nervous friend and his paranoia. 

It soon turned to anger as he broke the cupboard in Marwood’s old room. How could this fucker just go and leave him, how could he get a good role and leave for Manchester, abandoning him in this shit hole of city? 

It didn’t last long. Now there was only grief, as Withnail admitted to himself just how much he missed Marwood. They hadn’t seen each other since that day in the park, and what would he give to return to that.

Maybe he could have stopped him, maybe they would be together in this tiny flat again…

…Maybe he could have confessed him his feelings? 

Withnail groaned and pressed the palms of his hands to his face. What use was the booze if even the voices inside his head wouldn’t shut up? What an exceptionally idiotic idea, confess what? A silly crush that could very well be the product of too many drinks and the lonely cold evenings spent longing for a warm body by his side. And what would the result be? The shorter man panicking and trying to run if he wouldn’t be frozen to the spot? No, he must never know!

And why not? Wasn’t he allowed some happiness? All right, he hardly found any roles and he was constantly inebriated but wasn’t he allowed to let the man he was so attached to know about it?

In a sudden moment of clarity Withnail sat up straighter and looked around the room. He should go and see Marwood, yes, he should call him right now and tell him that he’d come for a visit. Even if he weren’t able to gain the courage to tell him all, at least he’d see him again.

With a shaking hand he reached for the telephone.

******

 

He leaned in the small chair in the theatre’s dressing rooms, it was crowded, loud and hot and it made his head spin. It was close to midnight and he was still dizzy from the performance, and very happy, too. Various pieces of the costumes and the make up were scattered all around him and on the table, quickly snatched away and replaced by others constantly. 

Around him his co-artists chatted and moved around, some addressed him but they already knew that he was often lost in thought so they weren’t cross if he didn’t answer or even acknowledge them.

Marwood stared into the old mirror that was surrounded by cheap and broken light bulbs, they were incredibly bright and made his eyes tear. He was used to them now. 

When he had first arrived in Manchester everything had felt so wrong, the theatre and it’s crew, his tiny little flat, which was so much smaller than the one he used to have. But at least he could keep it neat and tidy, now that he didn’t share it with Withnail. 

At first he had missed him, the weeks after he had left him had been terrible and painful. He had longed for the company of his friend he felt lonely and frightened by the prospect of being all alone. 

It turned into denial soon, as he reassured himself that he was perfectly fine, that he didn’t need him, that any affection he felt was just his imagination.

Later he was angry, angry with himself for leaving overhasty but mostly angry with Withnail and his sodding family. How could this fucker just tell his uncle such things? Things that weren’t in any way true, couldn’t possibly be what he felt. Why didn’t he ask him to stay, why didn’t he insist on following him to the station?

But Marwood had resigned himself to feeling broken hearted and lonely by now. Somehow he had hoped that Withnail had claimed that he loved him because he felt the same. It would have been so good to just find out that they had felt the same all along.

He wished that he would have had the courage for something important for once in his life. He should have told him what he felt that day in the rain, when he had said farewell in the park trying not to let his emotions show. He was a good actor in that aspect. Would it have been different? Would he have stayed in London or would Withnail have went with him? 

But who was he kidding, Marwood was certain how a confession would go, should he ever dare to make one. The other man would laugh at him, or he’d get mad, who knew?

“Hon? Hey, listen to me”

Marwood looked up startled, seeing the woman next to him. She held a telephone out to him toying with the cable.

“You have a call, hon. He says it’s important.”

“Who does?” asked Marwood and watched her putting the receiver on the table in front of him.

“Dunno, hon. Some drunk guy with a posh speech. Says he knows you and that he needs to talk to you.”

She left and Marwood stared at the telephone in front of him, unmoving. No one had ever called him in the theatre before; he didn’t know anyone who would need to. It was Withnail, he was sure. Why would he call? Why now? He could just leave it, pretend that he was busy or that the phone hadn’t reached him in time, Withnail wouldn’t wait for long anyway. But why shouldn’t he just talk to him? He wouldn’t say anything stupid and ash on the phone anyway. It would be nice just to hear his voice, that’s all. 

With a deep breath he reached for the receiver.

******

 

The curtains closed and the audience erupted into cheers. The performance was extraordinary and the actors had outdone themselves. Withnail clutched the bouquet and the bottle awkwardly as he clapped slowly, his eyes fixed to the spot where his old friend had stood last. 

Marwood was a great actor and the role was perfect for him. He was different with short hair and in the costume, nearly unrecognizable. Eventually the people calmed down and started moving to the exits, Withnail with them. 

He stopped at the main entrance and went to the corner behind which the side exit was and swayed nervously on the spot. He had bought the flowers and a bottle of whisky at the station, both for Marwood but he had drunk half of it on the train and the flowers had already been squished when he got them. 

Both were cheep but he didn’t want to turn up with empty hands. Now that he stood in the cold winter night it seemed silly and embarrassing. What kind of guy got his friends flowers and what kind of actor would like to receive measly ones like that? And while the bottle may have been fine, he had already started drinking; surely Marwood would look down on him for that? He couldn’t even stay sober when he went to see his friend.

Before he could decide to run away and leave this bloody city for good, the door down the alley opened and the actors rushed past him, laughing ready to go home or wherever the lucky bastards went after their performance. 

And then Marwood was there, looking at him wordlessly.

“That was good, you were good.” He muttered and held out the flowers and the bottle. The corners of Marwood’s mouth twitched up slightly and he accepted the gifts.

They didn’t speak as they walked through the empty streets, there was nothing Withnail could think of that wouldn’t be somehow wrong. They passed the bottle back and forth, taking small sips of the cheep booze. 

Occasionally he would glance at the shorter man. He hadn’t changed much, except of the hair. Withnail frowned slightly and turned away, he didn’t like it, the curls had been so much better. 

They passed a canal when the first snow flakes started to drop. Both men stopped nearly simultaneously in the light of a street lamp.

“Oh, snow” Marwood stated and looked up. “Looks like winter is finally here.”

Withnail watched the fluffy white things fall on his friend’s cheeks and lashes and nearly chocked on his words. 

“I have missed you.” He whispered as he felt his eyes tear up again. Why couldn’t he just stay calm for once?!

Marwood turned his head and looked up at him. He looked as if he wanted to say something but didn’t. He looked beautiful like that, even with the ridiculous haircut. 

It wasn’t the best idea one could have when drunk but Witnail had enough of the constant worry and doubt. He wanted to get it out of the way and if he’d end up with his friend running away in shock, well, then it was just his bad luck.

He leaned in for a kiss.

******

 

The curtain closed, slightly muffling the cheers from the audience and the actors joined in hugging and congratulating each other for the successful show. Marwood stared at in the direction where he was sure he had seen Withnail before. So he had really come as he promised he would. 

He felt a wave of anxiety as he thought about him watching the act. What would he say, did he like it? 

He went to the changing room and tried taking of the costume and getting on his clothes as fast as he could but his hands shook nervously and he nearly stumbled as he tried to get into his trousers. And to his embarrassment the others noticed.

“Did your sweetheart came to visit you?” they asked teasingly. Marwood forced a smile and kept quiet as they walked out of the theatre. He longed for a good drink to calm himself down.

Withnail was already waiting for him when he walked out on the street, his heart beat so fast he thought it must burst any time now. His friend sparsely spoke as he complimented him and gave him a half drunk bottle and a bouquet. Marwood smiled and accepted them, glad to have some booze and barely keeping himself from pressing the flowers to his chest.

He led the way to his flat wordlessly, he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t embarrass him. He swallowed the cheep whisky quickly, hoping that it would help him unwind or give him more courage for what he wanted to do so desperately. 

He noticed Withnail frowning at him. Had he done something wrong? Or was it the haircut? The way he had stared at it from the beginning left no doubt about how much the taller man disliked it; of course he didn’t like change. 

Before Marwood could think about that too much he noticed snow flakes in the light of a street lamp. 

“Oh, snow…” he said and looked up at the little things. “Looks like winter is finally here.” As soon as he shut up again he cursed himself for saying something silly like that.

The snow flakes landed on his face as he heard Withnail mutter something that sounded like a “I’ve missed you”.

Marwood looked at him, thinking about asking what the other had said or saying that he had missed him, too, but he stopped as he saw the look on his face. Withnail looked just like he had when they said goodbye in the park, as if he was about to cry.

It wasn’t the best idea when drunk or nervous but Marwood had enough. He would risk it, even if he’d end up with a black eye and an angry friend.

He leaned in for a kiss.

******

 

Somewhere in the night streets of Manchester, right next to the canal a lone street lamp cast its light. Below it tow men stood, kissing each other like they had been wanting to for years now. They didn’t move, one clutched a small bouquet of flowers the other held a bottle loosely in his hand. Snow flakes circled around them, swirling to the ground and catching in their hair and clothes.

After a while they broke the kiss, the taller straightening his posture the other staring up at him. They look at each other wordlessly and carry on with their walk back home.

Just when they disappear in the dark beyond the lamp’s reach the shorter takes his friends hand in his and squeezes.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first Withnail and I fan fic, and here is the wonderful fan art for it: http://shh-im-wondering.tumblr.com/post/20805289679/asparklethatisblue-shh-im-wondering-replied-to (not mine...)


End file.
